


Detained

by harleyqquinn



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-11-14 08:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harleyqquinn/pseuds/harleyqquinn
Summary: Since leaving the bathroom, Adam has continuously struggled to form and maintain relationships. When one goes bad, he makes a mistake and is admitted for a 72-hour hold. Sometimes living's not that easy.





	1. Sleep

The place was unusually dark. There was normally at least a soft light emanating from one of the windows, upstairs or down, wherever Adam had planted himself for the night. Usually downstairs, in front of the television, a yellow light seeping from the cracks in the blinds by the kitchen, a grey from the blinds in the living room. No matter what time she got here; 12AM, 2AM, 3AM. But not today.

Maybe he’d gone for a walk. Claire remembered a time when he was prone to wandering the streets in the early hours, sometimes just to think, maybe breathe fresh air. Sometimes to “refill his prescription”. Or maybe, the unfamiliar feeling of hope curling in her stomach, he had found a job. Adam had said he was looking, trying to find some work with a local PI. She didn’t believe him. She had wanted to… but it had been long enough.

Claire sighed, her breath fogging the cool night air. She was starting to think that coming back tonight was a mistake. Maybe her words hadn’t cut Adam as deep as she thought they had. She would just check, maybe leave a note if he was out - to apologise.

Sliding the straps of her handbag down her arm, Claire searched through it for her set of keys. It took a moment to follow the clacking sound of them in the depths, the darkness not helping. Hope continued to rise in her stomach, pushing against the worry of a darkened house. Maybe what she said finally got through to him, Claire thought, pushing the worn key into the security lock. Maybe Adam had gone and signed himself in somewhere. The niggling voice of worry quickly answered - how would he pay for it?

She pushed the door open quietly, on the off chance that Adam was in there, somewhere, asleep. She couldn’t remember the last time he had been asleep when she arrived called in after a late shift.

“Adam?”

No response. Claire continued along the narrow hallway, running her hand against the worn wallpaper. She found the light switch, a soft click, and the hallway became bathed in a soft yellow glow. It was the same sight from this morning when she had stormed out. Letters scattered across the console, one of its handles cracked and falling to separate sides, a coating of dust on the floor.

“Adam?” She peered around the corner into the sparse living room. It was dark, the TV shut off. No lamp. Noticing a pile of blankets hanging from the edge of the couch, Claire made her way toward it. Then she saw it, the unmistakable thin figure beneath them. Adam. Fast asleep. She was grateful for a moment, glad to see that he was fine. Better than fine, he was finally getting some sleep.

Claire’s brow furrowed as she got closer; something didn’t look right. Her foot connected with something on the floor, a bottle rolling away from her. “Adam?” No longer inquisitive, her voice became urgent, louder.

“Adam?” She reached out, shaking his shoulder. Yanking the blankets off, she looked at his chest. Looking for the familiar rise and fall of his breath. She couldn’t see it.

“Oh fuck, Adam? Adam!”

A loud clatter broke the air as Claire’s handbag tumbled to the ground. Her own breath now coming in short, panicked bursts, she kicked the bag away. She needed help. Was he dead? “Fuck! Adam, oh my god-”

Her phone. No, CPR. Was he breathing? Did he have a pulse? How do you check? She fell to her knees, searching for her handbag, its contents littering the musty carpet. Her fingers found the familiar shape of her phone, its light illuminating the darkened room as she unlocked it. Adam’s face was pale, white, his mouth looked blue, but maybe it was just from the light. She fumbled, dialing as fast as she could.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My boyfriend - oh my god -”

“Ma’am? What’s your emergency?”

Holding the phone against her ear with one hand, Claire grasped Adam’s wrist, trying to feel for a pulse.

“My boyfriend, I think he’s overdosed, Jesus Christ. Is he dead? I think he’s dead!”

“Okay, what’s happening?”

“He won’t wake up! He’s pale, he’s going blue. Oh my god-”

“Okay, can you check if he’s breathing?”

“I can’t tell, how do I tell?!”

“Put your hand in front of his mouth and nose. I’ve dispatched paramedics to your location, okay? Can you feel breath?”

“Yes. Oh my god. A little bit? Barely? Oh my god. Fuck, Adam.”

“Okay, can you perform CPR?”

“Oh God, I don’t know!”

“The ambulance will be with you shortly, can you put him in the recovery position?”

“Okay, okay. What’s that?”

“Lay him slightly to one side, you need to make sure his head is facing to one side.”

The woman’s voice was muffled as Claire switched the phone from one hand to the other, holding it between her shoulder and ear.

“Do you know what he took?” The sound of clacking punctuated the woman’s voice, her fingers flying over the keyboard, noting down her every word. Claire suddenly felt wary. What if they thought she was taking drugs? Fuck, this was a mistake. She was finally getting her shit together, and now this? No, he was going to die. She would explain. It was an accident, she was certain of it. He’d been saying he couldn’t sleep.

“I don’t know. Valium, he has a prescription.”

“How much has he taken?”

“Fuck! I don’t know! He can’t sleep!” Her gaze flitted around the room, the empty pizza boxes littering the floor, then coming to rest on the bottle that had rolled. “Valium, he took the rest of it. I don’t know how much…”

“Okay, ma’am, is he still breathing?”

“Yes, just… very slowly.” Was it slow? Or was she just breathing fast? She was breathing fast, she was panicking, maybe Adam was breathing normally? No, Claire knew this wasn’t normal. But he was breathing. The thought suddenly occurred to her - what if she hadn’t come back tonight?

The sound of the 911 operator’s voice was continuing through the phone, she hadn’t realised as she backed away slightly, her body now curled close to the floor. “-be with you shortly, okay? Are they able to get into the premises?”

Claire had to blink a few times, clearing the tears that had begun to well in her eyes, “I don’t.. yes, the front door. I didn’t lock it.”

It was only a few short moments, but each second seemed to last an eternity. An eternity of sitting on the balls of her feet by the couch, staring at Adam. Watching for the occasional short rise and fall of his chest, the breath fighting to expand his lungs and barely succeeding. A blue light lit the room, then white, then it was dark again.

As the blue light grew brighter, closer, Claire took notice of the mess surrounding her. More boxes, plastic and cardboard, some with the food still seemingly untouched. Empty bottles, the blue and white light glinting eerily off their labels - vodka, beer, vodka. __Jesus. How did it get this bad, when did it get this bad?__

Claire thought it was okay. Well, as okay as it ever was with Adam. She had been spending less time at the ramshackle apartment, but she’d explained it to him. She needed to get better, to get back on her feet. She wanted him to as well, but… he was less committed. To put it lightly. She expected him to make mistakes, especially with nobody else to help him up. So she’d called, and when he didn’t pick up the phone she drove over. She should have walked through the house, to make sure everything was okay. When had she been in the living room last? A week ago?

This morning all she had seen was the kitchen. The empty cupboards - not unusual. The empty fridge - also not unusual. But the bits and pieces of food she had left for him were gone, so that was something. An improvement, Claire had thought.

There were people there now. In uniforms, busying themselves around Adam’s body. They were talking, but she couldn’t hear. All she could hear was her own voice, echoing from far away, “I can’t keep worrying about you.” Adam’s abrasive reply - “I can take care of myself. Go fuck off to your perfect life.” Her own again, half way out the door, “You’re going to kill yourself with this shit, Adam.”

It was her fault.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is my fault,” Claire said, her voice insistent. She leant forward, burying her face in her hands. “I should’ve known.”

A gentle and unassuming doctor stood before her. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pulled up another tub chair and sat opposite her, their knees almost touching.

“You most likely couldn’t have known, Miss Winters. Or do anything to prevent it,” he paused, cleared his throat, then continued, “so you believe that this was an intentional overdose?”

Claire’s hands slid from the middle of her face toward her ears, pushing straight blonde strands of hair from her flushed face. “It might have been an accident…” She clearly didn’t sound convinced. “I told them, he can’t sleep.”

“So he was prescribed Valium?”

“I think so,” uncertainty had crept into her voice again, “I mean, I think that’s why.”

The doctor nodded, jotting something down on his notepad.

“Now you said he’s your boyfriend?”

“I mean. Yes, sort of…” Her voice trailed off, she looked down, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, “We’re dating, I guess… I guess that’s what I’d call it.”

“Okay, well in that case, any history… personal, medical, anything that you could provide can help us tailor Mr. Faulkner’s care. We’re advising that he be placed under a 72-hour hold for observation.”

Claire’s face paled. She could feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead, “I don’t know what to tell you,” she started sincerely, “I honestly… Don’t know that much, and I don’t think he’d ever forgive me for telling anyone anything personal.”

If she was completely honest, there were things she knew about Adam that he doubted he was aware of. That, unfortunately, was a price paid during drunken nights and vocal nightmares. He had always kept some distance, and there were things she’d heard that she couldn’t imagine a sober or functioning Adam telling her. Telling anyone.

She sighed, “I can tell you this. He takes Valium, he has insomnia. He… doesn’t exactly say no to other illegal substances. And he drinks to forget stuff. He’s… I mean, if you look up his name. He’s had a lot go on, you know?”

The doctor nodded, but Claire still wasn’t certain if he did know. If he knew who Adam was, or what had happened to him. And, if she was honest to herself, she didn’t know that much either.


	2. Apathetic or Pathetic?

> Name: Adam Faulkner
> 
> Gender: Male
> 
> Age: 25
> 
>  
> 
> Next of Kin: Miss. Claire Winters (Girlfriend)
> 
>  
> 
> Problem Presentation: Substance overdose - Valium & alcohol
> 
>  
> 
> History:
> 
>   * Victim of “Jigsaw” (2004)
>   * Presented with shoulder wound - gunshot - following rescue, prescribed Vicodin
>   * Recent GP prescribed Valium due to persistent insomnia & anxiety
> 

> 
>  

It was always surprising how much dust could settle in just two days. As the blinds swished up the window, particles of dust became suddenly visible, floating across the room. Invisible, only to be revealed in the bright light of day.

“Adam? Hello, I’m Annette Flint. You can call me Anne.” Her hand flexed, but before she was able to reach out to the younger man he had slumped into the chair by the window.

In an almost impercetable movement, she instead tucked her hand into the pocket of her trousers, taking a moment to observe her new patient. He sat low in the chair, legs stretched forward, knees slightly apart, but his arms were crossed against his chest - relaxed, but wary. Keeping her gaze on Adam, Anne took her seat opposite him.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking some notes,” she began, reaching for a pen resting on the desk beside her. “It’s just for your file.” Anne paused, the silence punctuated by the click of her pen. “So - why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

“What, like my dad beat me and now I’m a drug addict?” He responds quickly, lifting his gaze to meet hers.

It wasn’t the first time someone had responded in a similarly sarcastic way, “And is that true?”

He was silent for a beat, perhaps not having considered this to be a response. Continuing to hold her gaze, Adam replied, “That’s what you guys get off on right?”

Glancing down briefly, Anne jotted something onto her notepad: 

> _Deflective._

Shaking her head, Anne set her notepad on her knees and leaned forward slightly. “No, Adam. I want to know more about you. As a person. Not just anything that may have happened in your life to bring you to this point. So why don’t we start somewhere else?”

She broke his challenging gaze to glance down at the notepad, taking in the information provided again, aware that Adam would just as likely respond with a sarcastic ‘Don’t you know that already?’ to an inappropriate question. He clearly was not open to speaking too personally, not yet anyway. So she decided to start with something more broad.

“What do you do for work?”

“Nothing.”

“You must have done something before you did nothing?”

“I took photos of people, alright?” His voice was clipped, clearly irritated.

Anne chose to carefully press on.

“What kind of photos?” She noted that his posture had shifted slightly; he had drawn closer in on himself and began to tap a foot on the ground.

“Like… Guys cheating on their wives, that kind of shit.”

Anne responded with a soft ‘huh’, jotting something down again:

> __Photographer._ _

“So a private investigator?”

He made a sound that was close to a laugh, perhaps the most he could muster, and not one of actual humour. “No, I just took the photos.” Adam stopped, frowning, “That’s it. I just took the __fucking__ photos.”

“But you don’t do that anymore?”

He didn’t answer immediately, taking a second to mull the question over. On the face of it, it seemed a simple question.

“No, not really. It’s the only thing I’m good at, but…” Adam shrugged.

“Mhm,” Anne nodded, scrawling another note:

> __real reason not working?_ _

“So what do you think your plans will be, once you get home?”

“I guess I’m not supposed to say - the same shit as before?”

The corners of Anne’s mouth tugged in a slight smile, “No. It is advisable to make changes.”

“Oh yeah sure, I’ll just get a good eight hours of sleep a night, stay sober, get a job. All fixed, doc.”

“Easier said than done, huh?”

Adam looked at her then. Properly, this time. Her calm and almost understanding demeanour was grating. He didn’t deserve this. He was a piece of shit. He didn’t mean to say it, really, but the words were unrestrained and came tumbling out of his mouth without thought, “She shouldn’t have come back. I should be dead.”

“What makes you say that?”

He can’t help it this time. He laughs, it’s a dark sound.

“Fuck,” Adam breaks eye contact and runs his fingers through his hair. They feel oily. “Because I’m a fuck up?”

Anne seems to know he has more to say on the matter, so doesn’t immediately respond.

“Because I’m pathetic? Because I took skeevy photos of guys cheating on their wives, professors fucking their students? I was kidnapped, shot? He shot me - I should be dead,” Adam shakes his head, “He didn’t even come back for me. I fucking lived, and for what? I need a cigarette.”

“Sorry, Adam, you’ll have to wait until your rec time.”

Adam noticed that she was pretty good at multitasking; speaking to him while writing notes, not looking at them. Maybe it was so he wouldn’t notice that she __was__ writing. What the fuck __was__ she writing about him?

He leaned forward slightly, extending a hand toward her and pointing, “what does that say?”

She smiled at him, probably intending to be disarming, but Adam didn’t trust her, no matter how nice she seemed. Nobody was nice. Not deep down. Some of the ‘nice’ ones were actually the most fucked up. 

“Just my observations,” Anne replies, turning the notepad slightly toward him. She tapped her fingers against where she had written ‘photographer’, “So I can keep track, see any improvement on your progress.”

“My progress.”

“Yes, to make sure that you can be released with no danger to yourself or others,” She paused, turned the notepad back around, and leaned forward. She looked directly at him, her gaze taking in Adam’s sunken, slightly yellowed features, his unkempt hair and dry, cracked mouth. “Do you still want to hurt yourself?”

Adam stared back at her, frustrated at being unable to think of an immediate witty retort. He didn’t have the energy. He was tired.

“No, I want it to _stop_ hurting.”

Fuck, he was pathetic.


	3. Special Treatment

##  ****Patient Notes** **

****Annette Flint - Patient notes for** ** **_**_Adam Faulkner-Stanheight_ ** _ **

****Notable History:** **

__Adam was one of the first three victims found alive following torture by “Jigsaw”._ _

__He was transferred to ED alongside Dr Lawrence Gordon, also a victim of “Jigsaw”._ _

__Medical records show that:_ _

  * __Adam was recovered approximately two hours after GSW to left shoulder (soft tissue)__
  * __GSW resulted in blood loss and hypovolemic shock__
  * __Prescribed Vicodin for pain management (temporary) -__ is he abusing Vicodin?
  * __Missed some routine check-ups regarding GSW and mental health__
  * __Presented twice in following 12 months with wounds requiring stitches__ \- self destructive behaviour?
  * __Referred to psychiatrist in 2006 after complaining of insomnia and describing symptoms of anxiety and possible depression__
  * __Prescribed Valium to combat anxiety, depression & insomnia__



__Viewing television footage featuring Adam gives a more thorough understanding of his experience:_ _

  * __Abducted from his own apartment__
  * __“Jigsaw” claimed to be “punishing” Adam for taking photographs__ \- explains reaction at describing work, possibly why he is not working? Does not seem to fit with other “Jigsaw” victims however, is there more reasoning behind it? What is Adam’s real opinion on this?
  * __Adam was taking photos of Dr. Gordon for former detective, described detective as “a crazy cop”__
  * __Shot by Dr. Gordon during Dr. Gordon’s escape__
  * __Is aware that he was found in response to anonymous phone call__
  * __References another victim present (deceased)__



__His appearance in these interviews should also be noted:_ _

  * __Verbally distances himself from trauma__
  * __Flat affect__
  * __Thin, but visibly healthier than current__
  * __Apparent tremor in hands__
  * __Enlarged pupils__



****First Individual Session - 10/02/2007** **

__First impression of Adam is that he is resigned to his current situation. Seems to want to appear unfazed but is wary._ _

__Slightly receptive, possibly due to lack of other options. May become more receptive after further sessions._ _

__Immediately attempts to deflect with sarcasm and drawing attention to others._ _

__Mention of father - some truth to his relationship with his father?_ _

__Worked as a photographer. Became quickly angered when reflecting on photography work. Now believe this is related to trauma._ _

__Seems to quickly shift from despondency to anger or irritation (generally self-directed)._ _

__Honest in likely returning to previous lifestyle upon release._ _

__Mentions trauma in passing, quick to deflect “wants a cigarette” then questions my note-taking, seems to have slipped into memory but does not want to discuss further._ _

__Does not reference Dr. Lawrence Gordon by name._ _

__Does not deflect question of likelihood to self-harm - interesting._ _

__Appears to still have suicidal ideation - unsure if passive or active. Possibly self-medicating but not clear how frequently or with what substances. Will discuss with psychiatrist._ _

__

* * *

 

##  ****Session 09/03/2007** **

“Anybody else get this kinda special treatment?”

Anne looked up from her notes at the sound of Adam’s voice.

“Hm?”

This time Adam didn’t take a seat when the nurse quietly closed the office door. Instead, he paced toward the opposite window. He turned to face her, his dark hair illuminated by the light behind him causing his face to appear even more sunken.

“Two chats in two days?”

“Ah,” Anne turned away from her desk to face Adam. Staying seated, she answered, “Well, I have to monitor your progress. I’ll be honest with you, Adam. General protocol is just to keep patients here long enough to ensure they aren’t going to leave and immediately hurt themselves. But given your unique history and what we discussed yesterday, I am concerned that you’ll find it hard to manage once you leave without proper support.”

 

Every patient admitted to the psychiatric ward did have their own story. Many of the stories were unfortunate and upsetting. Some were downright tragic. But there __was__ something different about Adam. He was obviously lost, and Anne felt there was little need for him to suffer so long. He could be helped.

“My ‘unique history’,” Adam's repetition dripped with sarcasm, “right.”

“Yes, it’s unfortunate that you were never given appropriate coping mechanisms to manage the response to what happened to you.”

Adam began to pace toward the chair, then back toward the window. He ran a shaking hand through his hair then shrugged his shoulders.

“Didn’t know there was a book on how to ‘cope’ after being abducted by sick assholes and almost dying. But sure - thanks.”

Anne’s mouth formed a gentle smile. “No, there’s not. And, unfortunately, many survivors of trauma do try to self-medicate with alcohol and drugs, which can worsen symptoms. How are you coping now?”

 

Adam shook his head. “What the fuck’s that meant to mean?”

“Claire Winters informed first responders that you were taking Valium. But your overdose was caused by both high levels of diazepam and toxic levels of alcohol.”

Adam’s brows knit together momentarily as he processed the information. He figured that Claire told them everything. That she would’ve thrown him under the bus, forcing him to get help that he didn’t want. “That’s what she told them?”

“Yes,” Anne turned and shuffled through the notes on her desk, “She suggested that the overdose might have been accidental. That you were prescribed Valium. Miss Winters said she understood it to be for insomnia, and declined to provide any further information she might be aware of regarding substance abuse.”

 

Adam sighed - __fuck.__ He could be out of here, at his own apartment, in his own bed. But there was an annoying voice in the back of his head. One that, every now and again, told him that this was it. He couldn’t keep doing this. Either get help or die. Dying always seemed like the easier option. Keep fucking up and it would happen sooner or later. It was starting to look like sooner. Sometimes he woke up with no idea what day it was or _where_ he was. Then it would register. His shithole apartment, his fucked up life. And then he’d wish he’d never woken up at all. So he’d drink again, drink until he was numb, until everything was black, and sometimes he’d think __‘Well maybe this time I won’t wake up at all.’__

“...through that day?”

“What?” Adam realised he had tuned out. He’d walked back to the chair beside Anne’s desk and slumped into it without paying attention. He wished it would just swallow him whole.

“Could you walk me through what happened the day you were admitted?” She asked.

“Or what, I’m stuck here forever?”

“No, but I f-”

Adam quickly interrupted, “Then no.”

 

Anne nodded, touching her pen to the notepad and scrawling a short note. She let Adam sit in silence for a moment before looking up at him again and saying, “Okay, let’s talk about what happens when you leave here.”

“Like what?”

“How about your support network. Family, friends? Who can you talk to, or who can help you work through what you’re thinking?”

Adam shrugged.

“What about Claire?”

She was surprised to hear him let out an incredulous laugh.

“What about Claire? Oh, did she __conveniently__ forget to tell you she dumped me?”

 _ _Ah.__ “Is that what happened on the day you were admitted, Adam?”

He bristled at the question, seeming to take some offence to the idea that he might be distraught over the end of his (apparently) single meaningful relationship.

 

In Adam’s mind, however, Claire had been at least a little right, and that’s what hurt the most. He knew she deserved better, even if he thought her excuses were bullshit at the time. “I don’t blame her,” he shrugged, “She can do whatever she wants.”

“Well, she seems to care about you quite a lot. Perhaps we can phone her on your behalf, before your release?”

“No. I’m fine. Jesus, I don’t need anybody to look out for me. Or whatever.”

“Okay, Adam. One more question then. What about Doctor Lawrence Gordon?”

“Why would I __want__ to talk to him? So I can think about all this shit constantly?”

Anne audibly exhaled and leaned forward so that her eyes were level with Adam’s.

“Because talking helps. I know I might be biased,” she gave Adam a slight smile, “but it is proven that speaking about your experiences can help people immensely. Especially so when speaking to others who are going through similar things in their lives.”

Adam made a disbelieving sound. “Like AA? Jesus. AA for victims of psychopaths.”

“No, not like AA. There are groups for survivors of trauma, yes. But I’m talking about something more simple. One person. Have you spoken to Doctor Gordon at all in the last few years?”

Adam was quiet for a moment, absorbed by the tapping of his own fingers against his knee. “Yes. Not for a while now though. Like… a year? A year and a half?” He shrugged, “I dunno.”

 

Aware that they were coming to the end of their time, Anne sat a little straighter and adopted a more authoritative tone, “I can contact him for you?”

Adam shrugged.

“I think that it would be really helpful for you if he came here, or perhaps spoke to you on the phone. Before you’re discharged.”

“You’re gonna tell him I’m stuck in a nuthouse?” He gave a dull laugh, “Sounds great.”

“I can tell him as much or as little as you like, Adam.”

Another sigh, “Fine. Whatever.”


	4. A Good Doctor

It was five o’clock on a Friday afternoon and Lawrence was looking for more work to do. It was ironic really; he used to rush through paperwork attempting to get out of his office as quickly as possible after phoning Allison to apologise for being home late again. Now here he was, attempting to bury himself in dull paperwork so that he could avoid leaving his office.

He had noticed in the last few weeks that Nina, his assistant, had also taken to leaving later. In the past she would spend her last hour tidying, checking schedules, finalising appointments, and completing any task that had the potential to keep her in the office for a minute after five. Lawrence never particularly minded. She was a good worker, always punctual, had an excellent memory, and was liked by everyone to come to the office. But now he was mildly interested in the sudden change in behaviour.

Lawrence recalled Nina mentioning a boyfriend previously. She had needed to take extra vacation days for a long weekend - skiing or surfing, something to that effect. Lawrence suspected that Nina’s now dawdling afternoons were the result of a breakup. If a breakup was the reason, she seemed to be handling it well. Better than he ever did in any case.

 

The shrill ringing of the telephone cut through Lawrence’s wandering thoughts. It only took a moment for Nina to pick up the receiver, place the call on hold and saunter to his office doorway. “There’s a Doctor Annette Flint on the phone for you. It’s late, did you want to take it?”

Lawrence looked up from his desk drawer and gave her a slight nod. If he was lucky it might be both a long and interesting phone call.

“Okay,” Nina nodded, “I’ll put her through for you. I’m going to head out now, so I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yes, Monday.”

He thought for a few seconds, mulling the name over in his mind. It wasn’t one he recognised, but his memory for such things hadn’t been particularly reliable lately. Possibly someone he met at a conference? Feeling the weight over the receiver in his hand, Lawrence brought it up to his ear and greeted the caller, “Doctor Gordon.”

“Hello Doctor Gordon,” her voice seemed a little rushed, but it evened as she introduced herself, “I’m terribly sorry for calling you so late in the day. So thank you for speaking with me… My name is Annette Flint, I’m just wondering if you have a moment to discuss something regarding a patient of mine?”

Taking a second to try and identify the voice, Lawrence lent back in his chair, his gaze sweeping across his tidy desk. “Of course. I was just finishing some paperwork, but… what can I assist you with?”

A frown creased his brow as he heard her sigh in relief. Whatever it was it seemed somewhat urgent.

“I was hoping to discuss with you a patient I have at the moment…” Anne dipped into hesitation before she continued, “Adam Faulker-Stanheight?”

The phone suddenly felt sticky in his hand, his palms clammy. He felt a breath hitch in his throat, unable to escape. What was this? Press pretending to be a doctor? He hadn’t heard much from reporters over the last year, the attention of the Jigsaw cases having died off until another victim was found, or the anniversary of his own recovery rolled around. Was this a new tactic?

“Doctor Gordon?”

The air finally expelled from his lungs, but his hand gripped the phone tighter, his knuckles turning white. “Sorry,” he still wasn’t sure what to think. “Where are you calling from?”

Her voice remained calm and understanding at his off-kilter response, “I’m a psychologist at Bellevue Hospital. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to unduly alarm you.”

“Adam’s there?”

He wasn’t able to mask the concern in his tone. Unsurprising, given that he wasn’t sure how else he felt. Or how else he should feel. Relief? Yes, Adam was alive at least. Annoyance? Yes. Sad? Maybe.

“Yes, he… He’s given me permission to discuss some aspects of his care with you-”

“Why is he there?”  
  


Lawrence had always been level-headed in sudden situations. It was a prerequisite for someone in the medical field. You needed to remain calm, stay collected, focus, and be able to take the lead in a crisis. But a situation like this; one where a hospital phones you with the news that a friend who has avoided you for over twelve months is in a hospital? It was different. Suddenly, Lawrence felt a pang of empathy for the family and loved ones of his patients.

“Adam’s currently being held under a 5150 for observation, but having spoken to him I do have some concerns about discharging him prematurely.”

He wasn’t sure what to say. Leaning forward, Lawrence rested his elbows against his desk and began to rub his temples with one hand, waiting for Annette to continue.

“I’m honestly not sure where your relationship with Adam stands, Doctor Gordon. So if this isn’t something you want to discuss, I understand.”

“No, it’s… it’s fine,” A sigh punctuated Lawrence’s reply, “Is there a particular reason that it was me you called?”

He couldn’t help but wonder. It had been over a year, a year of trying to contact Adam, wondering how he was coping (particularly when he wasn’t coping so well himself), wanting to confide in him in the final breakdown of his marriage…. he had been beginning to doubt that Adam would ever resurface; in his life, at least. Was this phone call his choice?

“Yes, sorry, I’ll get straight to the point. There are some issues that Adam needs to address, but I believe that it will continue to be a struggle for him given his apparent lack of support.” She paused, allowing the information to settle. “From what he has told me, he’s mostly estranged from his family, he doesn’t refer to any particular friends… and, from my understanding, his girlfriend recently ended their relationship.”

A girlfriend. That was a new development. A slight flicker of hope burned in Lawrence’s chest at this. Perhaps that was the reason for Adam’s sudden departure, it wasn’t solely his fault. “So he asked you to phone me?”

“I suggested contacting you.”

No other options then.

“After taking Adam on as a patient I did some background research, hoping to better understand what he was going through-”

“Ah.”

“Your name came up. And Adam did say that you had previously been in contact… So I was hoping to speak with you, perhaps organise a time for you to come and speak to him. If that’s something that you are interested in doing, of course. Again, I understand if it isn’t.”

Lawrence didn’t respond immediately. It wasn’t that it was a particularly hard decision to make, he was just unsure as to whether it was the right one. But given Adam’s current circumstances… It didn’t seem like Lawrence’s absence had improved anything.

“I can make the drive tomorrow. If it’s suitable for you?”

“Oh!” Annette’s reply was breathy, giving Lawrence the suspicion that she didn’t entirely believe he would say yes. Should he not have? “Yes, certainly. I’ll be in the ward tomorrow, so please just get them to page me. I’d like to speak with you in person first before you see Adam.”

And with that, Annette thanked him again for his time, for being so understanding, and left him to his lonely office.


	5. The Third Day

By the third day, Adam had decided that he was dead. He’d had plenty of time to think about it and had come up with a few reasons. Number one: waking up in a weird place, attached to weird things. Which for most people was probably at least a bit disturbing, but it filled Adam with a familiar terror. There had been a tube down his throat and he thought he was gonna choke to death. His chest felt heavy and sore like someone had sat on it for hours and his hands were itchy from foreign tubes funnelling out of his skin.

Number two was when they said he couldn’t leave. That keeping him locked away was in his ‘best interests’. He’d almost laughed at that - like they would know what his best interests were. Apparently an involuntary hold didn’t include the days you were unconscious and chained with tubes to your bedside. If they said he had to stay longer than this, Adam decided, he was definitely in hell. Number three was pretty much everything that had happened since being transferred to the psych ward.

He felt sick constantly. Like something was eating away at his insides. Nicotine withdrawal, alcohol withdrawal, Valium withdrawal, lack of sleep, or just eating a proper meal for once - he wasn't sure. 

Then there was the talking. Patients talking to each other, the nurses, people trying to talk to him (most seemed to get the impression that he was not there to make friends at least), talking to the shrink, social workers, group therapy. Then there was the medication. Or lack of it. They told him that, because he’d overdosed on diazepam, that he would be given slightly less than his prescribed amount. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could cold turkey off of, so they’d have to gradually reduce the amount to put him on some other med that was supposed to help. Help with what, he wasn’t sure. Either the insomnia, the numbness, or creeping dread. Maybe all three, but the Valium was meant to fix that too. 

And the rigid schedule. Adam had never done well with schedules. School, jobs. He worked better when he did what he wanted when he wanted. Oh, and they were already sick of him asking to smoke. He had to lay off as well, just so he didn’t run out of cigarettes. No way was he sticking on some patches. Nicotine stickers - what a joke. If it came to that… well, Adam was certain. He was dead and he was in hell. At least the rent was free.

There wasn’t a lot to do in the free time that he did get. Reading, talking, crafts. Adam spent most of rec time on his own bed, in his own head. It wasn’t helpful. Actually, Adam found most of it to be the opposite of helpful. Today, Adam had taken up residence by the television. He wasn’t watching it. Most of the others didn’t seem to be either. They sat there, staring at the TV, but their minds were somewhere else. 

Adam stood with his back against the wall, the weight of his body against the sturdy surface provided a weird sense of comfort. He was thinking about ringing Claire. He’d thought about it yesterday too. Last night as well. To start with, he thought he’d ring just to tell her what was happening. But he decided against it. He thought about all the things he’d probably say, the horrible things that would come tumbling out of his mouth before he could catch them. Adam wouldn’t regret it really - he was still pretty pissed off. But he didn’t trust himself not to go too far either and he didn’t feel like spending even a minute wallowing in regret. He’d probably say something about her parents, she would hate that. She’d tell him he was an asshole.

A sudden movement yanked Adam from his reverie. One of the other patients was walking toward him. He’d noticed her the other morning at breakfast. She’d been sitting opposite his roommate, an old guy who pretty much kept to himself except when he felt like arguing with other people about “the war” (Adam never asked what one) or a government conspiracy. He figured that she was just going to take a seat near where he was standing, close enough to see the TV but far enough from anybody else not to be spoken to. But, instead of sitting, she leant against the back of the chair, gripping either side of the frame with thin fingers. Adam noticed that her nails were bitten down and was about to suggest that she try smoking instead when she spoke up.

“You’re going to die.”

 _ _What the fuck?__ Adam’s eyebrow arched and his shoulders lifted in a shrug. It always felt unbalanced, one shoulder’s movement exaggerated now, the other underplayed due to lack of shoulder rotation and just discomfort. It still got the point across though. “Yeah, me and everyone else.”

“Cancer,” she said, her voice untainted by emotion. She was shorter than him by a few inches, and she stood slightly slumped with her shoulders curving inward. She shook her head, forcing her brown hair from her eyes, her gaze fixed on his face. "You're going to be all alone."

“Nice work, detective.” It was starting to sound like a half-assed carnival trick. She’d seen how many times he’d forced the nurses to indulge his smoking habit. Adam was about to tell her to find someone else to fuck with when she took another step closer, now only a few inches away from him.

“It works. You’re going to die because you didn’t listen.”

 _ _Right. She’s mental.__ He had to get out of here.

“He helps people.”

At first, Adam thought it was just his brain doing what it always did - jumping to that bathroom, to what happened there. Helping people? She was talking about that psycho serial killer. What else would she be talking about?

“You’re fucking crazy,” he spat, stepping past her.

She turned, her calm demeanour unphased by Adam’s response. “He’s helped people,” her voice a little louder now.

“Jesus, fuck off!” His voice had risen, ignited by the anger burning in the pit of his stomach. His heart was beating faster and his fists clenched in the bottom of his pockets, the nails biting into the dry palms of his hands. Something was creeping up his throat, he couldn’t breathe properly.

Other people were turning their heads away from the television, away from their daydreams to stare at him. One of the nurses, stationed at the medical window, had immediately risen from her chair at the sound of Adam’s voice. Disagreements clearly weren’t unheard of when you locked a bunch of people together. Before he could say anything - or do anything - another voice, this one calm but loud enough to carry across the room, cut through the fog enveloping Adam’s thoughts.

“Adam?” It was the shrink, Anne (or whatever her name was), standing by the door leading to the hallway, “I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

__Thank fuck._ _

As much as he thought talking was a waste of time, Adam would rather sit in a room with one person he didn’t want to talk to than in a room with a bunch of crazy people he didn’t want to talk to. He walked quickly toward Anne, only glancing over his shoulder once at the woman he left behind. She was still standing by the wall, staring at him, a sly smile at the edges of her mouth. Adam shook his head, trying to get rid of the words she’d said. It didn’t work.

“Are you okay?” Anne’s voice drifted toward him. She was holding the door open with one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of her long cardigan.

Moving past her, Adam nodded. “Yeah.” The door closed softly behind them. “I don’t know…. No.”

It was quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft clicking of Anne’s short heels until they came to a stop in front of her office door. She stood to the side, beckoning Adam inside. “What happened?” She asked, closing the door behind them.

Shoving a hand through his mess of hair, Adam fell into the chair beside the desk. He stared at the ground for a minute, unsure of what to say. Anne remained quiet, sitting down at her desk and turning to face Adam. Finally, he said, “Doesn’t matter.” He over-reacted, that was it. And he didn’t need to give them an excuse to keep him here.

“Adam,” her voice was even, meant to be calming, "I understand that you aren’t interested in making friends with the other patients, but-”

Adam’s gaze rose to meet hers. He pushed his hand through his hair again, stopping at the back of his skull, scratching with his fingernails. “She was telling me how I was gonna die,” he shook his head, both hands dropping into his lap, “It was stupid. Whatever.”

"What did she say?" 

He noticed that she didn't have her clipboard. Was she making mental notes instead, or just not planning on writing any of this down? He shrugged. "Cancer." 

"Cancer?" 

"Yeah from all the smoking, I guess," Adam laughed unconvincingly.

"Anything else?" 

He shifted in his seat. "Yeah, she..." The words trailed off and he took a deep breath, rubbing a hand across his face. "She said that he helps people. I'm going to die because I didn't listen to him." His hand came down onto the tabletop with a  _smack_ , causing Annette to flinch. "It's bullshit. I got fucked with for doing my job, and now I'm going to die because I didn't do what some sick fuck wanted?" His breath had accelerated, catching in his throat, not making it down to his lungs. What else should he have done? He fucking killed someone - and for what? The soft beige walls were closing in, the edges of his vision darkening, he couldn't breathe. 

"Adam." Suddenly everything came back into focus. He was anchored to the desk, Anne's hand resting against his forearm. "Adam - focus. Just take a deep breath in, through your nose," she emulated it, watching him. "Out through your mouth." She sat quietly for a moment, breathing loud enough for him to hear, allowing Adam's subconscious to mimic it against Adam's better judgement. "It's okay. I see why you were angry at her."

He nodded idly. He'd already fucked up now. He was worried that if he said anything else they'd keep him locked up forever.

"Responses like that, what just happened to you, it's normal. It's something that I can help you with, okay?" She smiled gently.

Adam was sick of her smiling. He knew she didn't really care, this was just her job. She got paid to care about people. When she went home she probably slept fine. "Right." 

"I actually wanted to speak to you about something else." 

“Yeah?” Everything tensed. His fingers, toes, his chest. He desperately needed to smoke. He knew what she was going to say; they were going to keep him here.

“I got in contact with Doctor Gordon.”

Adam exhaled. Unless Lawrence told her to keep him locked away that was probably okay news.

“He’d like to come and see you.”

The tension in Adam’s body quickly amplified, splitting into surprise and some kind of nervousness.

“You seem surprised.”

He shrugged.

“Doctor Gordon’s coming in today. So - if you’re still happy to see him - I’d be happy to let you two speak in private.”

Adam wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, really. He didn’t think that Lawrence would come here. Now he wished he never agreed to it. It didn’t matter whether they spoke in here, or out there, surrounded by mental patients, it’d probably end the same way. Badly.

"After that," she paused, waiting for his attention again. "I'd like to complete your final assessment. Then, hopefully, we can create your discharge plan."

He tried to conceal his surprise this time. Hiding his emotions was one thing that Adam was never very good at, but this time he felt like his life was on the line. After that even, after his outburst, they'd let him out? Maybe he wasn't dead after all. There wasn't usually any hope in hell after all. 


	6. Visitation

Lawrence had always been comfortable in hospitals. His parents had found it strange. When he was nine he had scaled the tree in their backyard. It was his favourite place. A quiet spot to sit and watch the goings-on of the neighbours. And, often, a place to read. That day Lawrence been so close to finishing his new book that he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the page as the sky started to darken.

The sun was just starting to set, and Lawrence knew he could finish before dinner. But the wind started to pick up, sending dried leaves __whooshing__ across the grass below him, and rattling the branches above and below. _ _A few more minutes__ , he’d thought, just as a particularly violent gust of wind rocked the tree, flicking the pages of his book, tousling his blonde hair across his forehead and into his eyes. For a second Lawrence had been blinded by hair and the wind whipping at his face. He tried to grip the book tighter, hold onto his place, but he felt himself being knocked off kilter by another gust of wind. One foot came unbalanced and he slid. The last thing he remembered was the rush of cold air against his face and then the stomach-turning __crack__ his arm made as it hit the grass. He had laid there for a second, dizzy, his arm numb. Everything was a whirl after that. His mother had been standing by the kitchen window, she came rushing outside. She had bundled him up, shoved him in the car, and they drove.

The hospital smelt strange. It smelt kind of how their house did after his mother did a spring cleaning. An acidic, clean smell, punctuated by the floral scent of flowers. He had sat patiently while his mother spoke to someone behind a desk. It was noisy. People rushed everywhere, but not looking lost or confused. They looked like they had a purpose.

He remembered the doctor looking at his arm, examining the deep purple bruise that had blossomed beneath his elbow.

“You’re real brave, son,” the white-coated man had said, which made Lawrence smile. “A lot of kids can’t even look at it, when they break a bone.”

Lawrence was fascinated by the process; the examination, the x-rays, the fitting of a cast. The nurse that came to see them kept saying “sorry for the wait” but Lawrence didn’t mind. It meant he got more time to watch people whizzing by, listening to snippets of conversations in passing. Long words that sounded like a jumble of letters. That was when he decided - he was going to be a doctor.

Despite being a different hospital to the one he was used to, Lawrence felt perfectly at home wandering the halls of Bellevue. Unlike most visitors, he had no issue in finding his way around an unfamiliar maze of identical hallways, elevators, and rooms. Unsurprisingly, the hallway that lead to the mental health unit was similar to every other one en route. The only marked difference was the small woman seated behind the reception desk.

As he approached, the woman’s gaze shifted from the glowing computer monitor beside her.

“You must be Doctor Gordon?” She said, greeting him with a rather toothy smile.

Lawrence smiled back at her.

“Yes, I’m here to see a patient-”

“Of course, Dr. Flint will be out shortly. Please,” she gestured toward the row of blue-cushioned chairs by the wall, “take a seat.”

With nobody else waiting, Lawrence chose the chair in the middle of the row, positioned within eyesight of the television. He barely had a moment to rest his cane against the arm of the chair beside him and stretch out his bad leg before the creak of a door opening nearby caught his attention. Another woman stood by the desk now, Anne he assumed. She spoke briefly to the receptionist before stepping around the desk and quickly toward him. Lawrence was surprised to see that she must be around his own age (from her voice and apparent enthusiasm to help her patients, he had assumed she was younger). She looked kind enough, with soft facial features and curly hair that brushed against her shoulders. She seemed to notice that he was about to stand because her stride quickened and she was beside him in a second.

Used to people taking particular note of his walking aid, Lawrence expected her to ask the question, or at least linger on it. But she didn’t. Instead, she sat in the chair beside him and set her clipboard on her knee.

“Hi, Doctor Gordon,” she greeted him warmly and stretched out her palm to shake his hand. “I’m Anne. I’m really glad you were able to make it in today.”

“Oh, it was no problem.”

“How was the drive?”

“Fine, thanks.” Lawrence gave a slight smile. “A nice quiet change from the conference flights.”

Anne laughed at that.

They spoke for a few more minutes before she gestured toward the door she had come out of. It wasn’t the main one into the ward, but a narrower one by the desk. She stood and kindly waited a moment for Lawrence to rise, settling his weight away from his bad leg and onto his cane. Anne then guided him through the door and into another corridor.

This corridor, like the others, was white. Rather than branching into numerous other corridors, however, it was spotted with plain white doors, some of which featured name tags. They turned a corner and stopped at another plain door; this one unlabeled.

“I thought I would give you two a little privacy,” she explained. “The ward can be loud and distracting, I’m sure you can imagine. I thought, given Adam’s tendency to…”

“Avoid meaningful conversation?”

Anne smiled. “Yes. I thought this might be more appropriate.”

She turned, opened the door, and beckoned Lawrence inside.

The room -again- was white. This one, however, had a grey-blue carpet covering the floor and inconspicuous photographs of the ocean mounted on the white walls. An empty desk was situated beneath one such photograph, the desk’s surface void of any implements that would make injury possible. Anne gestured to two armchairs positioned by the far wall.

After they had settled down opposite each other, Anne said, “I wondered if you could perhaps tell me a little bit about Adam? How he was when you last spoke?”

Lawrence mulled the question over for a moment before replying with a small smile. “Verbally combative.”

“Well, he still certainly is that. Is there anything you’d be happy to share maybe, regarding his mental state at the time. Or perhaps any substance abuse that you know of?”

 _ _A 5150, mental state, and substance abuse.__ The dots connected and Lawrence wasn’t entirely surprised.

“I’d like to discharge Adam today, but I’d like to provide him with the opportunity for ongoing support,” Anne said into Lawrence’s silence. “Understanding his personal baseline before his admittance can help with that greatly. Although I imagine that the Adam you know may be vastly different to the Adam prior to his trauma.”

“Well,” Lawrence’s voice was slow, measured, “from what Adam’s told me, I doubt that the man I know was that different.”

Anne nodded quietly, waiting for him to continue.

“I considered him a friend, really. As much as a person can be to him. He tended to avoid my phone calls if he could, so our conversations were usually on his terms. Which, most often, involved drinking. I’m not exactly one to judge,” Lawrence paused and averted his gaze momentarily. “But the state he was in sometimes was concerning. From a personal and medical point-of-view. But overall he seemed okay until he disappeared.”

“What happened there?”

Lawrence looked up again. “At first it wasn’t unusual. I think Adam gets restless. If anything, not hearing from Adam is a positive sign.”

He considered telling Anne about the time that he had arrived at Adam’s apartment only to find half of his belongings spilling from boxes, Adam’s feet perched on one, his unconscious body slumped on the sofa. Once Lawrence had roused him awake, Adam had eventually shared that he was moving again, suspecting that someone was following him, and he wasn’t going to get “fucking kidnapped” a second time. But that felt too personal to share with someone that Lawrence doubted Adam would speak to again.

“He would normally resurface after a week or so. Although this time he didn’t. I had hoped he was doing better. That was around a year and a half ago.”

After speaking for a few more minutes, Anne stood up.

“I’ll fetch Adam. While you two talk I’ll fill out his paperwork.”

In Anne’s absence, Lawrence sat and pondered the current state of affairs, stretching back to the year earlier. His wife had left him, he was only able to see his daughter every second weekend, then Adam had disappeared without so much as a word. While Lawrence had spent increasingly longer evenings in his office and become an almost-regular at the local bar, Adam had apparently disappeared off the face of the Earth. But now something had happened. Adam had done something damaging enough to end up under a 72-hour hold. Lawrence thought back on his first conversation with Anne. Adam’s girlfriend had broken up with him, she had said. Now Anne mentioned his mental state was a concern, combined with questions of substance abuse. Lawrence sighed and buried his face into his palms. Lawrence couldn’t help but feel like he’d failed again. He had failed at his marriage, failed at being a parent, failed to truly save his family, and failed Adam. Both back then, and now. Why hadn’t he called? The sound of the doorhandle quickly drew Lawrence’s attention.

A nurse stood at the door. She smiled at Lawrence, beckoning into the room with her free hand. A moment later Adam appeared. Lawrence felt another sigh creeping up his throat, he swallowed. Adam looked sick, to put it bluntly. He was thin, thinner than Lawrence had ever seen him, his blue eyes starkly contrasted against the darkened skin beneath them, his jawline shadowed with stubble. His hair had grown longer, the unkempt dark mess adding to Adam’s washed out appearance.

Adam stood still for a moment, just inside the room, as the nurse closed the door behind him. He cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, ran his hands through his hair.

“Hey,” the word finally crawled from his throat. He didn’t know what to say. What was normal in this kind of situation?

“Adam.”

After the awkward greeting, Adam took a seat opposite Lawrence. He avoided the older man’s gaze, instead focusing on the carpet.

The two sat in silence for a moment, the air settling between them feeling tense. Adam sat with his arms crossed, the fingers of one hand playing with the discoloured hem of his t-shirt. Despite his levels of patience, Lawrence knew that Adam was more stubborn. So he forced the beginning of the conversation.

“What happened?”

In Adam’s mind, the question could relate to two things. What happened to get him here, in this room, in this place, or what happened to make him up and leave New Jersey. He didn’t really feel like talking about either.

“Nothing.”

Lawrence sighed. He shouldn’t have expected it to be easy, it rarely was.

“Nobody can help you, Adam, unless you talk about it.”

Adam snorted in derision, his gaze lifted from his socks.

“What, you’re a therapist now too?” He stared at Lawrence for a moment. “Hope they gave you a raise.”

“Why did you call me?”

Adam gave a lopsided shrug. “Does Alison know?”

Lawrence averted his gaze by rubbing his hand against his forehead. Who knew conversations could cause migraines.

“I guess she doesn’t.”

“Adam.”

“I was tired, okay? How many times do I have to tell people?” Adam shifted in his seat.

Lawrence’s gaze remained fixed on Adam. He couldn't help but notice the shaking of his hands, the constant fidgeting, his already oversized t-shirt hanging from his now thinner shoulders, giving Adam the appearance of a drowning man. Lawrence felt like that sometimes. Like he was drowning. He wondered if that’s what Adam felt too.

“What were you taking?”

Adam shrugged.

“You know,” a pause. “Valium. __Prescribed__ Valium. What - is that a crime now?”

Lawrence was well aware that Adam wasn’t a good liar. Not outright, anyway. He was better at lying by omission, revealing just enough to satisfy the questions while leaving out integral details.

“They don’t hold you under observation for taking prescribed medication.”

“Jesus, I took some pills. I couldn’t sleep, I took some more. I __couldn’t sleep__ so I… had something to drink. It was an accident.” He paused again and exhaled loudly before attempting something like a smirk. "Well, I got some sleep."

“An accident,” Lawrence repeats, his tone flat.

“Yes, a fucking __accident.__ Jesus, it’s not like I’m doing heroin. Even if I was… who the fuck cares?”

“I would.” Silence drifted between them again, Adam being caught off-guard, before Lawrence continued, “Why didn’t you phone me?”

Adam’s eyebrows arched, seemingly surprised by the question. “Because you’d come here. And you shouldn’t’ve.”

Lawrence couldn’t deny it. He could think of very few times that Adam had called him in some kind of state and he hadn’t gone to his aid. Adam would usually be drunk or stoned. Usually drunk. Or in the beginning stages, words elongated and messy, his eyes glazed. Sometimes Lawrence would join him, helping Adam empty the bottle. Other times it would be the tail end. A phone call in the early hours of the morning, unintelligible words, but the meaning clear. Whatever it was at the time: lonely, depressed, panicking. And Lawrence would dutifully pull on some clothes, go to the door, and find Adam where-ever he was. His apartment, the bar, in the gutter.

“You should go home,” Adam continued, “or wherever. I think she just wanted me to prove I knew, like… one person.”

Clearly, things weren’t any better here for Adam than they had been back at home. It made Lawrence wonder now, more than ever, why Adam left.

“You should have phoned me, before now. If you needed anything.”

Adam gave a frustrated sigh. “I don’t __need__ anything, okay? I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“You don’t need anything from anyone? Is that why you left?”

Adam’s fidgeting had gotten worse. Full of nervous energy, Adam rose from the chair. He stood for a second before turning away from Lawrence and looking out the window.

“I don’t know,” he began to pace. “Yes.”

Lawrence sat in silence, watching.

“I don’t need anybody’s help. I mean, look,” he turned and gestured toward Lawrence. “You’re here. Why?”

Lawrence didn’t immediately respond. __Why?__ It seemed like a ridiculous question.

“Surely you can appreciate what it’s like - to have someone call you and say that a friend who you haven’t been able to contact in a year is in a hospital?”

Adam turned then. He appeared to study Lawrence with some intensity before walking back to his chair, slumping into it in defeat.

“She said I had to talk to someone. I didn’t… there was nobody else.”

“I know.”

“That’s why I left, okay?” Adam began to fidget again. “You shouldn’t- You shouldn’t have to be there. I’ve been an asshole to you. All the time.” The words were difficult, sticking in his throat. It was a lot easier to say these kinds of things with the lubricant of alcohol. “She answered once, you know. Alison. I think… I had a new number, but she knew it would be me.” He gave another bitter laugh. “You must have been fucking out of it, man.”

“You left because of Alison?”

“No,” his words were clipped, frustrated. “Because you’d keep showing up. I don’t even remember… Most of the time, I wouldn’t remember calling you. But then you’d be there, and you shouldn’t be. You should’ve been with your wife. Your kid.”

“Christ, Adam,” this time it was Lawrence’s frustration that cut through the air. “I was- I am with them. But Diana has her mother. Alison has her friends. You-”

“Don’t have anyone? Right. I __wonder why.__ ”

“Yeah, you don’t make it easy.”

The fine line of civility was beginning to crack. It wasn’t unusual in their conversations. As Lawrence said, Adam didn’t make being a friend easy.

“I needed to make sure you were okay.” Lawrence’s tone was more even now, in an attempt to balance the conversation. “And I think your doctor’s right,” he said as he slowly rose from his armchair, shifting his weight to his cane. “You could use a friend.”

Silence settled over the room again, until Lawrence was almost at the door. 

“Lawrence,” Adam’s voice sounded hesitant, “Thanks.”

Just as Lawrence reached for the door handle, a light knock sounded from the other side. He turned to look at Adam who gave him a nod. 

"Sorry to interrupt," Anne said, stepping into the room. "I just wanted to let you know, Adam, you'll be free to go home this afternoon. Before you go I need to run you through your discharge plan. Would you like to do that now?"

Adam shrugged. "Whatever, yes. I wanna get back to my place." 


End file.
